myths

Tuesday Tale – The Tree

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Charlotte is trying to get on with writing her new novel and hoping for inspiration for strange situations to get Lottie Lincoln into, but it is Charlotte who faces a strange situation.

‘Have you visited the tree yet?’ asked Myrtle.

Charlotte had been invited in for a cup of tea by her elderly next door neighbour. She had seen plenty of trees on her walks by the River Ham. Late spring and they were at their best, fresh green leaves bursting with new life. Among the people she had met living by or enjoying the river, none had mentioned a particular tree.

‘What tree?’

‘The Hambourne Oak of course, hmm, perhaps I should not have spoken out of turn, only locals know about it and newcomers are not told unless they are worthy.’

Charlotte was not sure whether to be honoured Myrtle had told her or disconcerted that Myrtle thought she should not have revealed the secret.

‘I won’t tell a soul Myrtle, your secret is safe with me. I have been reading all the local books about Hambourne, so interesting, but never any reference to the oak tree.’

‘You won’t read about the Hambourne Oak anywhere. No one knows how old she is, the important thing is that you must introduce yourself politely to her then she will protect you.’

Charlotte had not imagined Myrtle to be a tree hugger and though she was an older lady, she surely she had not been brought up in a time of myths. Still, her curiosity was aroused and this sounded like inspiration for the next Lottie Lincoln adventure in her WIP, work in progress, though she was making little progress…

‘Protection against what?’

‘Who knows, anything can happen in Hambourne, strange things have always happened here.’

‘Well when Robert Falstaff from the writers’ group I had joined was found murdered with his hands chopped off, that was certainly strange!’

‘Exactly and he was not a local, nor was he liked much so I imagine he had never been told to meet the tree.’

‘So where is this oak tree.’

‘I can’t tell you that dear, the whole point is to find it for yourself, which you will if she wants you to find her.’

‘How will I know, trees all look much the same to me, I mean I know what an oak tree looks like, but how would I recognise a special one?’

‘You will know when you see it, but on no account carve your name upon her, only Hambourne born may do that.’

Charlotte was intrigued with that information, a tree trunk with names carved for generations should be easy to spot.

‘Just tie ribbons in your colours.’

‘I don’t think I have my own colours.’

‘You must have, everyone has a colour of their own.’

The next day, Charlotte walked down the lane to the river and set off along the river bank in the opposite direction to the Ham Way. After a night of strange dreams about trees she was uncertain whether to believe Myrtle, a rational person would just laugh. She told herself all she was doing was investigating the other side of the river and enjoying fresh air and exercise before getting down to writing. In her pocket was the pound coin for the Ham ferry. She soon spotted a green flag and a few people standing on a wooden jetty. A small motor boat was making its way towards the jetty. As she drew closer she could see the flag bore the motif of an oak tree, was that a clue?

The captain or boatman, whatever one called him, deftly flung a rope loop over a wooden post and pulled in close enough for his passengers to climb out, without securing the other end of the boat.

‘See you later’ he waved them on their way. Charlotte guessed they were from the village of Little Hambourne, off to enjoy the comprehensive attractions of the town of Hambourne.

The boatman turned his attention to those waiting on the jetty.

‘Any news yet?’

‘No, nothing’ they shook their heads.

‘Sorry to hear that, if there’s anything me and Cis can do…’

Charlotte felt herself a real outsider. The few minutes it took to cross the river were spent in silence, she was intrigued to know whatever was happening, but unlikely to find out. She perched awkwardly on the narrow bench feeling her presence an intrusion. Remarks about the nice day or the pleasure of being on the river, would be out of place.

At the other side the rope was slipped over a rickety post and the boatman motioned for her to get off first. She would have to clamber unsteadily out under the watchful eyes of everyone.

As she turned to thank him and hand her coin over he said ‘Be sure not to miss the last ferry at five thirty and don’t get lost in the woods.’

He smiled for the first time and she was sure the other passengers caught his eye and smirked.

Charlotte chose the path along the bank, she was not letting the river out of her sight and resisted the temptation to turn and see if the others were following. She hoped she was setting a confident pace and after ten minutes stopped to take a sip of her water and admire the view, while glancing back to see if she was being followed. Not a soul in sight and soon it was obvious why no one else had taken this path as it petered out. At some stage the river bank had collapsed into the river, she would either have to turn back or follow the narrow track into the woods. She determined to wander a little way to see where it went then return. Birds were singing, though she could not see them in the thick foliage and the woodland floor littered with centuries of leaves had a unique scent. Though she had only ventured a few yards she felt she was in the depth of the woods. She must relax and enjoy the moment, forest bathing, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them she was standing under the oak tree. Was this really the Hambourne Oak? It was festooned with ribbons and dangling ornaments and a closer look revealed many names carved and various symbols, though nothing as common as a heart to link names.

‘Good Day, I’m Charlotte from Hounslow.’

Did she say that out loud? The tree looked down at her with a dignified stillness, there was no breeze to ruffle her leaves. She touched the ancient bark with one hand then both, not a tree hugger yet. The mighty oak was much too vast to hug.

A crackle of twigs startled her, then she detected movement on the other side of the trunk. Her first instinct was to run back to the river, but she pictured herself tripping over a tree root and lying helpless… she paused and a man stepped out, scruffy appearance but familiar.

‘Sorry, I thought I was alone.’

‘Danny, Daniel Worth?’

He did not seem to recognise her.

‘Charlotte from Hambourne Creative Writers…’

He looked more nervous than she was so she felt emboldened to speak again.

‘You have been reported missing.’

‘Do I look like I’m missing? I came to talk to the tree. Don’t look so scared, I’m not a murderer.’

Any illusion Charlotte had that she was handling this cool and calmly, like those heroines on TV dramas, were shattered.

‘I did not kill Robert Falstaff’ he said in a strong voice that did scare her.

This was turning into a plot she had not even imagined for Lottie Lincoln, what would Lottie say or do?

‘Nor did I, so the only way to prove our innocence is to find out who did.’

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Elf and Safety

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Debby paused with the kettle in her hand. She had seen a flash of red in her smart grey and white kitchen. There it was again, she must hurry up and make that appointment at Specsavers. She took her glasses off, polished the lenses then put them on again, only to see a flash of green and red. Blinking she looked around the kitchen and that was when she saw it, sitting on the mug shelf, one of those ghastly elves that parents moved around the house in December to spy on their children. Now she had her own Elf on the Shelf, but how on earth did it get there, she had taken a bone china mug down seconds ago to make her tea and it wasn’t there then. They had baskets full of them at the garden centre, but she hadn’t bought one. Her grandsons hadn’t been here for a week and it was hardly likely the girls next door had sneaked in when they came to retrieve their netball from the back garden. Well he might as well stay up there till Fergus and Hamish came round tomorrow, she would tell them the elf was watching over to make sure they behaved. Not much hope of that working, but worth a try. She wasn’t allowed to call them naughty boys, according to her daughter they just did naughty things occasionally, especially when she dumped them round at Debby’s. Rather ironic that Debby had been delighted to have a daughter, easier than bringing up boys she assumed and not thinking that a daughter might produce boys she would have to get involved with.

As she sat and relaxed with a cup of tea in the lounge she could not believe what she saw when she looked up from her newspaper. The elf was on top of the curtain rail. Perhaps she needed a brain scan as well as an eye test. Or was she an unknowing participant in a reality television show, her reactions being filmed, but who could have sneaked in here ahead of her. She could not reach the elf to see if it was battery operated. The best thing to do was go in the other room and catch up with her emails and other stuff on the computer, maybe look up elves or practical jokes.

The only practical joke was played by the elf as he suddenly leapt onto the screen from behind. This time Debby could see him all too clearly, not a stuffed toy, or battery operated. His eyes blinked, his lips parted and his cheeks blushed pink as he chuckled in a tiny voice.

‘Hello, what’s your name?’

Now she was really going mad, talking to him, did he say Alf or Elf? Before she could say anything else to him he leapt down and used the desk lamp cable like a zip wire. She soon lost sight of him. This was worse than having a mouse in the house, far creepier with no idea where he might pop up next and who did one report infestations, elfinfestations to?

 Debby started looking up myths and history of elves, but could not believe she was seriously considering that elves were as real as any other creature on the planet, but where did any myth originate from, a kernel of truth surely. She imagined herself being on an intelligent Radio 4 programme, the first person to discover a live elf. Debby did not see him again that evening and carried on with her normal routine; perhaps she had imagined it all.

When she woke up in the morning and saw Alf Elf sitting on the pillow she stifled a scream. Too close for comfort. Debby shook herself and recalled she had once imagined being a naturalist; she should observe not frighten the poor little chap away, though he did not look scared at all. How did one get hold of a scientist, that one on her favourite radio programme perhaps. But she had a sinking feeling as reality struck. How on earth would she explain to her daughter, she would think she had early onset dementia.

Everything was ready for the grandsons’ visit, breakables put away, the least annoying toys out and she had read the instructions for the junior Christmas decoration creating kit. All that was left was to explain about the elf, would her grandsons be excited, impressed…

‘Bye Mummy’

‘Love you.’

Why did modern parents have to say that every time they went out the door, she was only leaving them for two hours thought Debby.

‘Hamish, Fergus, I have a really big surprise for you today, well not big, very small actually…’

They weren’t listening and had already disappeared to search for the Lego. It wasn’t long before she heard the familiar arguments.

‘I had that piece first.’

’Granny, he pulled my head off.’

Where was the elf, she was suddenly worried for the poor little chap’s safety. She crept along the hall, into the dining room, no sign of Alf, then into her little sun lounge, the only room where Lego was allowed. And there he was, playing Lego with the boys, who were so fascinated they had stopped arguing.

‘Granny, you’ve got a real elf, I’ve never seen a live one’ said Hamish.

‘I told you elves were real’ said Fergus.

‘Be very gentle with him, he’s so small.’

‘Can I take him for Show and Tell?’

‘Oh no, I think school would be far too scary for him, in fact I think we better keep him secret.’

Unhallowed Ground – part two

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Tonight’s tale follows on from yesterday’s.

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Unhallowed Ground – part one

The next morning the team arrived early and the vicar and the robin watched with interest as slabs of rough grass were carefully removed to expose the soil, but then progress slowed as the team painstakingly marked out squares with string and appeared to be brushing soil away with toothbrushes. John Dee had to leave for his appointment at the local primary school. The head had been delighted when the vicar offered to visit the school. She welcomed fresh input to their school project ‘Layers of Time’ aligning with the interest in the dig. But if she was expecting him to talk about Romans she was soon disappointed. John didn’t like children much, however they were part of his calling and he found he soon had their interest when he started describing the more gruesome aspects of history. He ignored the expression on the teacher’s face as he moved onto public hangings and burials in unconsecrated ground. Before she could interrupt him he rounded off his talk with the politically correct plan to understand the wrongly accused of the past.

The vicar returned to the dig just in time to hear a cry of surprise and fear from a young woman and see other team members grab her before she was sucked into the sink hole that had suddenly appeared. It was not large, but wide enough that she could have slipped in. With great presence of mind the vicar had his camera out and leaned over the wall to take a picture before the leader of the dig ordered everyone to move right back. They joined the vicar on the safe side of the wall.

‘I saw a ladder’ gasped the girl.

 John brought the pictures up on his phone screen, a bit blurred, but they did seem to show a wooden ladder. There was excited chatter. Some were pragmatic and thought it must be an old sewer, while others suggested a secret tunnel to the church. Romans were forgotten about for the moment.

‘It is not safe for us to proceed at all, we need the council to send in their engineers’ said the dig’s leader.

John was disappointed, hoping a mystery tunnel would be of nearly as much interest as skeletons and they only had a short time to produce historical drama for the locals.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ piped up another young woman ‘my boyfriend’s a potholer and even better, he is on the potholing recue team. They could check this hole more safely than council workers.’

‘Yes let’s get this underway before the council gets involved,’ said John ‘after all, you have permission to dig, does it matter how it’s done?’

The emergency potholers treated the operation as a good training exercise. Within an hour all sorts of rigs and pulleys were set up so the volunteer could be lowered without stepping on the ladder. Initial shining of torches showed the ladder went down a long way. The ropes were played out and he disappeared out of sight to report back on his radio that the narrow passage down widened into some sort of cavern. His boss ordered him not to go any further, lest the whole lot came down on top of him.

They all heard his reports from down below ‘I’ll try and take photos, it’s a small space, oh my god, bring me up…’

He was helped off with his helmet and he looked pale and shocked.

‘Skeleton…’

‘A catacomb?

‘Just a small space and a skeleton laid on a slab of stone.’

‘A burial in unconsecrated ground, just as we expected,’ said the vicar ‘but why so deep and why the ladder?’

‘Whoever buried him would need a way to get back up, whatever the reason.’

‘Or he could have requested in his will that a ladder be installed in case he wasn’t really dead and then he could get out. People used to be scared of being buried alive.’

‘Still are’ said someone else.

‘He was definitely dead,’ said the potholer ‘he had a large wooden stake through his ribs.’

‘A vampire?’

‘Poor chap’ said the vicar ‘he probably had a disease which makes your mouth bleed and could have had mental health issues as well. We don’t have vampires in England.’

‘Yes we do’ piped up someone else ‘Count Dracula landed in Whitby.’

‘That is fiction’ sighed the vicar. ‘We will certainly pray for him at the All Hallows’ Eve Service tomorrow night, I trust you will all be there.’

Tuesday Teeny Tale

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‘Another one’s appeared, on the oak tree, pathetic and disrespectful, cultural appropriation or is it misappropriation?’

‘Just ignore them Oberon.’

‘I’m going to take my axe to it this time.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, they aren’t causing any harm to us, not compared with all the other stuff they do.’

‘What if one of our folk thought it was a real door!’

‘Daddy, why have you got an axe?’

‘Your father’s getting overwrought over the giants again. If you’re not careful Oberon they’re going to see you and then where will we be, doesn’t bear thinking.’

‘Mummy, you said the giants wouldn’t hurt us.’

‘They won’t as long as they don’t believe we exist. Anyway, it’s time you were getting ready for school, have you brushed your wings?’

Saturday Short Story – Gardener’s World

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This is the final part of Lottie’s latest tale and follows on from…

Thursday Tiny Tale – Family Secrets

The home of Cousin Ruth stood out in the row of large Victorian terraced houses. The front garden was packed with raised beds of vegetables and wigwams of runner beans. Lottie had never had much success with vegetables so she was impressed. Before she could peer closer as Tilly and Wesley ushered her up the garden path, the front door flew open and dogs and children hurtled out.

‘Just stand still’ said Tilly, doing the same.

Wesley obviously knew the routine and swept up an escaping toddler, kicked the front gate shut and herded dogs and children through the front door.

‘Wait for the dust to settle’ added Tilly.

 As the sound of barking receded Cousin Ruth emerged. She enveloped Lottie in layers of crocheted poncho and guided her inside, warning her to mind the toys. Lottie stepped over a huge dinosaur and dodged a strange lurid pink wheeled contraption. More dogs appeared and she would have been happy to pet them if she had been wearing casual clothes instead of one of her smart book launch outfits.

‘Come through, come through, Kizzy made you some cakes at Brownies.’

Lottie hoped the baking facilities at Brownies were cleaner than the kitchen she glimpsed through a half open door. She was led into a large sitting room where adults were gathered. Tilly appeared at her side.

‘Lottie is a famous author, I’ve read all her best selling novels.’

Nobody looked very impressed.

‘I don’t have time to read’ said Ruth.

‘Hey Lottie, did you hear the joke about the dumb blonde who was asked if she would like a book for her birthday… No thanks, I’ve already got one.’

‘Dad, you can’t say that, politically incorrect.’

‘But I like dumb blondes, I married one didn’t I?’

‘Down Flossie, sorry Lottie, she gets over excited, Bernie put the kettle on. Bernie is Geoff’s son, Geoff is husband number three, he has a large family too, but when he moved in here we weren’t expecting to both have adult children moving back in or to have grandchildren dumped on us. This is Oliver, husband number one, still good friends and Elspeth his wife, they both wanted to meet you and of course some of these grand brats are his as well. Sally did you order the pizzas, is that Dominoes you’re talking to?’

‘No, just booking my flight, I’ll do the pizzas next.’

In the midst of the confusion a child thrust a puppy into Lottie’s arms. It was undeniably cute and fluffy. Her handbag dropped to the floor, but at least she hadn’t dropped the puppy. She felt quite protective, how could this tiny being survive the tumult around it.

‘Sit down, sit down.’

Lottie was thankful to sink into a spot at the end of the sofa, a cosy corner of cushions and puppies as another tiny dog was placed in her lap. For a moment she thought longingly of her little cottage waiting for her return on Sunday evening, but as she looked around she realised she was experiencing life with a capital L. Life went on, it had not ceased when Callum died. Although her head was spinning she felt new ideas tumbling into her brain. Her next novel with the renegade vicar would feature love for real people; families tossed up into the air like a broken jigsaw and tumbling down into a different picture of blended families and romance for each generation. This family certainly seemed very happy.

As Lottie imagined her first chapter her thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream and a child sobbing.

‘Granny, Tommy pushed her down the stairs, not me.’

Lottie clasped the puppies, she felt a maternal need to protect them from Tommy.

Ruth darted out into the hall and yelled up the stairs, hauled back a child from entering the adults only zone, then shortly returned with two mugs in each hand.

‘Is tea okay, Bernie forgot to ask what you like.’

‘Fine, fine’ said Lottie, wondering where she would put a mug or how she would hold it with her hands buried in warm puppies.

‘I’ll put it on the mantlepiece, we keep all hot drinks up there. Now, I hear that the fairies were a complete surprise, Callum never told you, he must have been in complete denial, which is a shame, because we would have believed him now we have seen them at the bottom of our garden.’

Lottie wondered if this was a joke, had the whole thing been an elaborate joke, but Ruth’s expression looked genuine so she couldn’t resist asking if she could see them.

‘It doesn’t really work like that, we have never told the children.’

‘That’s a relief… I mean I guess you need to protect them.’

‘That’s why we grow the veg in the front garden. When we bought this place we loved the long garden, even though it had run wild. I jokingly said I was going to look for fairies down the bottom of the garden and imagine my surprise when I saw them. We didn’t want to harm them, make the same mistake as Callum’s parents, so we built a wall across and never kept cats. Occasionally I see one on top of the wall watching when the children are playing in their part of the garden, I’m sure they wink and wave. In recent times we have put cctv up and observed them properly and secretly. We never told anyone and we tell new neighbours we are rewilding.  Can you imagine scientists wanting to examine them or worse, fairieknappers…’

Charlotte paused, she was even beginning to believe in fairies herself. Was this for real? Her novel about Lottie was meant to be light hearted and fun and if people believed in angels and people used to believe in fairies…

Tilly was guarding the door as Ruth tapped her mobile phone then showed Lottie a picture. Little people, very tiny when you saw them under dandelions. Not like children’s Victorian books, actual miniature people, but with wings, genuine wings, they were flying. Lottie gasped and glanced at Tilly and Wesley, the only adults who were probably sensible.

‘Wesley, have you seen them, is this all for real?’

‘Well the Church of England doesn’t do Fairies but…’

‘They do angels’ said Tilly ‘so why not believe in fairies.’

‘Yes, all God’s creatures are entitled to their own lives so we have a sacred duty to protect them Lottie.’

‘Their secret is safe with me and I certainly won’t write them in my novels, I don’t think my readers’ credibility would stretch that far.’